


Of curses that never were

by Amarryllis_88



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Bad Parenting, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reconciliation, Witch Hunts, kind off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarryllis_88/pseuds/Amarryllis_88
Summary: It had been months since Avila had last seen the witch boy. But there he was, cradling a stale pint in a dark corner of this rundown inn.OrA cursed man stumbles upon a witch on the run.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 6





	Of curses that never were

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone,  
> To clarify, most of the rape and abuse happened in the past and is only discussed here. Still, heed the warnings. This fic also contains dubious consent, dubious coping mechanisms and dubious magic. Dubious everything. There is no truth; only angst.
> 
> Enjoy?

It had been months since Avila had last seen the witch boy. But there he was, cradling a stale pint in a dark corner of this rundown inn.

Even through the cropped hair dyed a dull brown, the shadow of a beard obscuring some of his freckles, the tired eyes and the sunken cheeks, he recognized him instantly. It was impossible not to. His features had been burned in his memory long before they were plastered on posters all over the markets of nearby villages. Avila remembered the last time he saw that face as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. It had been wet with tears, shimmering golden in the glow of the fire devouring the witches' shop. He had watched beside his father as the young man and his parents had cuffs and chains slipped around their wrists. Fragrant with burnt herbs and spices, the smoke had swirled all around them almost with intent and it's sweet smell had worried him. His father, however, was smiling as he coughed up his lungs, his body already cursed long ago. “ _It is our duty to see that these degenerates be brought to justice”_ , the patriarch had insisted when he had tasked Avila and his brother with assisting the soldiers. “ _It's only what they deserve.”_ As if he hadn't been a lucrative client of theirs, years ago. 

The witch must have felt eyes on him because he looked directly at him from over his pint and their gazes locked. Avila held his breath as turmoil painted the other man's face with strokes of surprise, anger and panic. For a moment, they stood still. The witch boy slowly set down his mug and set coins on the table, too many for the warm ale and cold hospitality of the innkeeper. He looked as if one wrong move would have Avila yelling for soldiers. He wished he could just let him go, but it was a chance he would never have again.

Avila stood, prepared to run, as he wholly expected the other to bolt out the door. He was confused then, when the witch simply waved at the innkeeper and sauntered up the stairs like he was retiring for the night. Avila cut through the room to follow. Footsteps echoed and rusty hinges creaked upstairs. Was he shutting himself inside? Then, as he was about halfway up the flight of stairs, a loud thud from outside the inn made Avila pause. He pressed an ear to the wooden wall only to pick up the sound of feet scampering on the gravel. That madman had just jumped out the window.

A few patrons cursed him when he barreled into them in his dash to the back door. He simply ignored the lot. Their words were impotent, snakes without fangs. Unlike the witch's. Avila almost ripped the door off the wall in his haste and managed to make the corner of the inn just in time to catch a glimpse of the other man slipping behind the barn and towards the woods. There was only a pale sliver of moon, tonight, to cast light between the trees. The fool was asking for a sprained ankle if not a broken neck. He could only run so far. Panting, Avila made it to the edge of the barn and peered into the forest. There was a sea of black under the rustling leaves. 

The witch boy had to be close. Try as might, he could not hear anything over his own breaths and the angry hissing of a cat inside the barn. Hissing at what? A cold shiver ran up Avila's spine to his nape and he barely had the time to turn around before a flash of silver came for his face. His world narrowed to the gleaming blade. It bit a long burning line into his skin as he threw his arm in it's path, but it stopped. Avila slammed all his weight into it's wielder. They crashed against the wall like thunder, with a crack that might have been wood or might have been bones. The knife fell to the grass as the barn groaned like a beast in agony. Neither man could find enough air to do the same.

It occurred now to Avila just how foolish he had been. The witch was dangerous, no longer the smiling boy he once knew. The fire raging in his eyes, even as they struggled to focus after the blow, told him just how much he underestimated his anger. Surely, Avila had now brought his father's fate upon himself. The witch's worse curse would worm itself into his flesh and his body would fail him piece by piece, rotting from it's corrupted core. Fear gripped his gut and he trapped the smaller man against the creaking planks with his body before he could shake off the last of the dizziness. Avila rushed to press a hand over his mouth and avert his eyes. Underneath him, the witch boy started to struggle. 

"I will let you go. I promise to let you go. The soldiers will never know you set foot here."

The other froze and listened. Avila wondered how many years of silence he just broke. He took a deep breath. The witch smelled of something piney under the road dust, fragrant and volatile like the smoke from his burning house.

"I will let you go", he repeated slowly, "but not before you lift your curse. The one you put one me when we were young."

There was a moment of consideration before the witch boy moved to push at his elbow. Avila steeled himself and obliged. He freed the other's mouth, pressing his palms flat on the wood and caging him between his arms instead.

"What nonsense are you on about. I never cursed you."

"Liar!"

And Avila had to pull back a bit to look at him, to search for the lie on his face even he did not dare meet his eyes. 

"Fix what you did to me. I could never take a wife", he admitted through his teeth. "I could never find pleasure in a woman after..."

His stare settled on the witch's lips. He could remember the tentative softness of them, the enveloping smell of the tall grass and the heat of the sun. By the time he had gotten over the surprise, it was already too late. The spell had set in and neither of them had noticed the silhouette past the line of trees. 

Those soft lips twisted into a sharp smile and erupted into a laugh that rang like shards of glass.

"Could you before?", the smaller man mocked.

"Stop that. You know very well how young we were."

Too young to desire a happy marriage when that future was taken away. Too young to stand a chance against the blows of his father. He had come home to the pale, contrite face of his brother and not left for the following week, too weak and bruised to pass the door.  _ “Shut your mouth, boy! I will not stand you saying that witch boy's name. You already sullied your lips enough.”  _ His father had never been a merciful man, but he was not one to lay a hand on them without reasons. So he had crouched beside his bloodied form and explained.  _ “Do you know why most witches are women? They are betrothed to the Devil, his brides. They give themselves to him, soul and body. It takes the worst kind of men to lower themselves and worship him in the same way. Do you understand, son? You kissed Satan's whore.” _

Even then, Avila could never find it in himself to be disgusted by the boy. Still today, when they were both desperate and bloodied, he wished that he could hate him, that he could kill the witch and suffer his faith with dignity. He couldn't. Instead, he pleaded. His father was surely turning in his grave.

"I ask only this of you. Please, undo what you did. Return me to normal and I will help you flee."

"Listen to me, you idiot. I can do nothing for you. This is your normal. Now, let me go."

"Easy to call this normal for someone who lays with the Devil", he spat.

"The Devil does not care more about my cock more than God cares about yours. And, trust me, he doesn't. If he did, do you not think he would have struck me dead years ago?" 

"You have the Devil's protection." 

"If not me, at least, my jailor? Now, what a godly man! Even taking part in a holy war against heathens, the witch exclaimed as something like madness crept into his voice. Too bad the fear of God did not stay his hand. Or his hips. Hell, He had every opportunity to smite the man, but no. That lazy arse of a deity left me to do the job myself!

The raw violence of the shout shook Avila who forgot himself for a moment. He looked into the witch's eyes and saw only fury. He had heard of the jailor, of course. The man had been found with his throat slit and his charge gone. Everyone had wondered what could have made the man so careless.

"Did you bewitch the jailor too?"

Avila regretted the words as soon as they escaped him. Gone was the heat from the witch's gaze. He was still, unnervingly so, and the man could not detach his eyes. It was like staring down a frozen lake. His fingers slid on the wood in an attempt to cover the other's mouth again, but he was to late.

"Don't you dare. Move those hands from the wall and I will curse you for real."

Pinned in place by the threat, he could only shiver as the witch tugged on his gloves and revealed stark shapes of ink adorning his fingers and the back of his hand. The garment, ruined in spots where the gravel under the window had cut through fabric and skin, was discarded to the ground.

"You're right", continued the witch. "I cursed the jailor."

He placed a searing palm over Avila's stomach. For a moment, the man thought the witch would break his word and that this would be his end. He tensed, his arms shaking with the want to move, but the hand traveled down.

"He was under my spell when he ripped the clothes off my back to look for a mark. Nobody noticed if he was being... thorough. You have to be with a witch, right?"

Fingers tugged at the lacing of his pants and Avila jumped in shock. Worry, stupefaction and burgeoning, shameful arousal warred inside him as the deft hand made quick work of getting his garment open.

"What are-"

He cut himself off with a hitched breath when it slipped under the fabric and around him. The witch only pressed on with his story.

"He couldn't keep his hands to himself, cursed as he was."

The other's palm was warm and strangely slick, he must have being bleeding still from his fall.

"So he was not to blame, really."

Cheek's flushed with heat, Avila berated himself for his weakness. His body reacted eagerly to the witch's touch. It would've been an outrageous lie to say he had never fantasized about it.

"Not when he took me still tied to the whipping post."

The image flashed, jarring, behind his eyelids. His eyes shot open to find the other's face turned away slightly, his brow furrowed and a sneer on his lips. His skillful hand did not skip a beat.

"Not when he almost suffocated me by fucking my mouth after he broke my nose."

Avila could barely breathe himself, let alone reconcile the painful scenes with the pleasurable caresses. He was pulled closer and drowned in the scent of pine. There were fingers running along his ribs, a shaky exhale on his cheek.

"Not when he whispered in my hear that he would watch me burn with a hand on his cock and a smile on his lips."

The witch's hand slowed to a deliberate, torturous stroke. It was wet with the man's lust and his own blood. Avila gasped. The image was nauseous; the pleasure, blinding. His mouth opened to plead for something but he did not know what. He dug his nails in the wood instead.

"But I brought this on myself, didn't I? He was just an innocent fellow. The poor, poor man. As innocent as you were before I poured all these vile desires inside your heart. Is this really what you think?"

The words were spoken so close to his ear that he had no hope to escape their weight. They carried a heavy load of hurt and derision. The witch's touch left a tingle in his skin as fingers traveled to his neck and his jaw.

"Is this what you wanted to hear? You are not looking for a cure, you moron. You are looking for an excuse. And I will not be you're scapegoat!"

Something in the witch's voice broke. It wavered. His breath shuddered. His grip tightened. Avila let out a wretched groan into his hair as he picked up the pace.

"This...", the smaller man mouthed against his neck. "This is your own desire. It always has been."

Avila gritted his teeth. He should deny it but his tongue couldn't form an argument. The other hung unto him with something like despair and he was afraid to lie.

"Say it."

Both an order and a plea, those two syllables cut deep under his skin. His body sagged forward, pressing him closer still to the witch until he could feel both of their frantic hearts beating against one another. He knew he had to speak. Avila could only think of one word:

"Méril."

The witch boy startled at the sound of his name. Avila, too, tasted a thrill as it passed his lips, like he was the one casting some forbidden spell. He prayed for forgiveness and he did it again.

"Méril, I'm sorry."

And he was. He had stood by as he had watched his former friend being dragged to some variant of hell. If somebody was to blame...

"You're not to blame", he said instead. "For any of it."

Méril shivered against him, buried a sob in his shoulder, molded his body to Avila's side. A surprised moan escaped the man when he felt an unmistakable hardness brush his hip. Years of guilty reveries came flooding through his mind. He wanted. The witch's temple rested, feverish, near his jaw and he bent to taste the skin. 

His orgasm hit him like a punch to the gut.

Silence fell hard over the two of them, broken only by their erratic breaths. It was not long before they settled, however, and the hushed murmurs of the night became almost deafening. Avila remembered the cold air, the still burning gash on his arm and his tense, numbing fingers. 

"I, I'm...", started Méril, softly.

Whatever that thought was, he never finished it, neither did he move away. He simply cradled his ruined palm between them. The witch did not stop the man either when he lowered his arms from the wall. Avila flexed his newly freed hands to relieve the ache and pondered on all the things he should do. He did none of them. As he placed his hand on Méril's back instead, he knew he had fallen for good and, for one quiet moment, he did not care.

The Devil or the Lord, may someone have mercy on them both.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited for grammar and a tags


End file.
